Comes the Dragon
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story # 8 Spock is back aboard the Enterprise, struggling with his addiction. Now, with her dying breath, a member of a landing party names him as her assailant, and all evidence points to the Vulcan.
1. Chapter 1

The hour was late, unseemly late, to be visiting a man's quarters—the private cabin of a commander, who also happened to be human. _Alien._ If she stopped to study it out, Nahfia Lonce knew she might bolt, so instead she concentrated on the golden liquor McCoy had served, on the pearlescent sheen of the goblet, and inconspicuously on the man himself.

Leonard was talking about Starbase 15, the port of leave they were scheduled to visit after the current survey mission. He sat in a chair opposite her, smiling a lazy smile, his legs casually crossed. There had been a special chemistry between them ever since their assignment to a landing party brought them together for the first time—the new Chief of Security and the veteran CMO.

"If you like," he drawled, "I could show you around the port district. Just the two of us…"

She felt an ominous trembling in the pit of her stomach. Setting down the bourbon, she escaped into a small, hardcover book on the side table. "Sounds nice," she said, and began thumbing through the pages. After a moment she noticed, thankfully, that the words were right side up. It looked like poetry. _You're a fool, Nahfia. A disciplined Zaran would never become involved with a human. He's too out of sync with Zaran ways, Zaran needs…_

They had been keeping company for more than three weeks, and so far he had only kissed her once, very chastely on the cheek. She was having a difficult time restraining the bonding energies that clamored to burst free. And there he sat, looking so impossibly relaxed, so incredibly desirable.

Nahfia forced her attention toward the printed phrases of poetry. It was a long time since she had held a real book. As she made herself read, the disturbing words drew her in deeply…

 _Hear!_

 _The dragon comes_

 _bone-chewing,_

 _spewing flame_

 _along its path,_

 _instilling fear_

 _through mindless wrath,_

 _it's shocking rage_

 _a madman's march._

 _Where will it end?_

 _Oh, spare the young!_

She turned from the nightmare verse to find Leonard standing very near, one hand resting on the back of her chair.

"Lovely, isn't it?" he asked.

"Horrible. Is it something a human wrote?"

Leonard smiled wryly. "I'm afraid we humans can't claim the honor. It's a collection of ancient Vulcan nursery rhymes—something Spock's mother helped compile and translate. Pretty awful stuff to feed children, isn't it?"

Perching on the arm of her chair, he gently took away the book and began toying with her mane. She felt his breath stir the wispy curls above her right temple. If she dared look up now, she knew she would lose herself in those gentle blue eyes of his.

Great gods, how she wanted him! She could not keep holding back like this without causing herself harm. Every inch of her yearned for the life-bonding of Zara—a formidable commitment even for her own species, let alone for a human accustomed to weak marriage commitments. Only yesterday she had learned of Leonard McCoy's previous marriage and divorce He had called his former wife a _harpie_ —the same woman he had once loved enough to marry. What had become of that love? How could such a man take on a permanent commitment and remain content? How could she put herself at such risk?

Shakily she said, "There are things about me you don't understand. About…the customs of my people."

His lips brushed her cheek in a whisper of a kiss before settling tenderly, possessively, on her mouth. Even as she reached for him, a thousand warnings sounded in her head. _No—hold back, don't let it start to happen…it will never work…you belong with your own kind…_

"Tell me," he urged between kisses. "I want to know everything."

And Nahfia found she could not refuse him—or herself—this chance. As her reservations slipped away she vaguely wondered, _where will it end?_

ooooo

Admiral Kirk sat wondering how a simple survey mission could have turned so disastrous. Yes, it had happened before in his career, but never quite like this—never a crewmember murdered and all the evidence pointing directly at the convalescing captain. He found himself thinking _, if McCoy paid as much attention to business as he did to the new Chief of Security, the two of them might solve this unpleasant mystery one helluva lot faster._ But he did not put it into words. He knew it was his concern for Spock that made him feel this way…and the knowledge that he alone had permitted Spock to beam down. Curbing his irritation he said, "I'm waiting, Doctor."

McCoy swiveled his desk chair and looked over at the patient under discussion. In the corner of the office Spock sat staring at the floor, his Vulcan features impassive. One could only guess at the conflicts churning beneath that rigidly controlled exterior. "Well, physically he's in fair shape. Despite a sharp rise in fatigue, his blood chemistry is, shall we say, the 'new normal'. The scratches are healing nicely."

"That's _nice_ to know," Kirk said with some sarcasm. "Give me his mental evaluation."

"The surface scan reveals an appreciable loss of memory."

"Which verifies Spock's statement."

McCoy turned back to Kirk and leaning toward him, said very quietly. "Jim, the strardus has me concerned…"

From the corner Spock said, "Doctor, you need not whisper. I _know_ I am an addict. I am also well aware of the effect Saurian strardus has on one's mind and body. I deal with it on a daily basis."

"Good for you," McCoy said tartly. 

Anger flared in the Vulcan's eyes. "Is it wise to taunt me? Clearly I have become dangerous."

"That's enough, both of you." Kirk was in no mood for a sniping match. "Spock, there is precious time unaccounted for—nearly an hour of unexplained absence after you remember pausing by the obelisk at the ruins. Ensign Weller gave her story before she died, and all the physical evidence backs it up. You _must_ remember something more."

Spock bowed his head, pressed his fingertips to his temples, and withdrew into himself.

"You and Reesa Weller," Kirk said, "working as a pair, both missing from the landing party. Suddenly you report in with a smashed tricorder and impaired memory. Weller is found raped, battered, and barely conscious. And she names _you_ as her assailant."

Spock lowered his hands and looked at his commanding officer, frustration showing in his dilated eyes. " _Why_ would I have done such a thing?"

"You tell _me_ ," Kirk came near to imploring. "There were traces of your skin under Weller's fingernails, along with T-negative blood. There was clear evidence of sexual assault. What in hell _happened_ down there?"

Spock was silent.

Kirk had not really expected an answer. They had been over this again and again since the moment Ensign Weller made her accusation—and now Reesa was dead, adding murder to the list of unanswered charges. Rising, he paced the cramped area of McCoy's office, emotions warring against his obligations as the current commander of the Enterprise. Over the years he had grown to trust Spock implicitly, and even if the captain were not half Vulcan, and therefore all but incapable of criminal violence, still Kirk would have believed in him. They were more than fellow officers—they were friends. And that fact made Kirk's present duty all the more distasteful.

Coming to a decisive halt, he said, "Spock."

The Vulcan rose to face him. "Admiral, I believe we should consider the psycho-tricorder."

" _What?"_ exploded McCoy. " _You_ volunteering to have your brain picked over?"

Spock cast him a withering glance. "Crudely phrased, Doctor. I will not say that I find the prospect agreeable, but psycho-regression seems the only logical course. My memory lapse must be explained to the admiral's satisfaction—and my own."

McCoy looked to Kirk for support, but the admiral's eyes lowered with regret. "Starfleet procedures leave me little choice, Bones. Schedule a regressive memory scan as soon as possible."

"Jim." The doctor drew him outside the office and kept his voice low. "Given a little time, amnesia often reverses itself without any sort of medical intervention. There's no reason to subject a Vulcan to the psycho-tricorder."

"We _have_ reason," Kirk said just as quietly. "With so many sensor-inhibiting minerals planetside, Lieutenant Lonce's investigation is going slow, but so far there's no sign of harmful life at the ruins, clear down to the viral level. So what does that leave? Eyewitness and physical evidence against Spock. Listen Bones, I let him go on that landing party and now a young woman has lost her life. _Something_ sure as hell happened down there, and we can't ignore it. Like you said, there's the strardus to consider. It lowers inhibitions and triggers impulsive behavior. Hell, I've seen firsthand what it can do to Spock, I've seen the rage come out of nowhere."

"A _look_ of rage, not out and out murder. I can't believe Spock would violate a woman and beat her to death."

"Let's hope you're right." Steeling himself, Kirk opened the office door and assumed the impersonal tone of command. "Captain Spock, you are hereby confined to quarters except as required for any medical procedures." It became necessary to clear his throat. "A guard will be posted at your door."

Still on his feet, Spock straightened to attention. "Understood, sir," he calmly acknowledged and walked out of the office. The door closed behind him.

McCoy looked steadily at Kirk, but said nothing. He didn't have to.

"Bones, of all the people aboard ship, the evidence— _and_ the strardus—points only to Spock."

McCoy sighed. "I know. You think he's guilty?"

"I don't know what to think," Kirk admitted, "but whatever the psycho-tricorder reveals, I'll never believe Spock capable of committing murder—not in his right mind. The evidence is stacked so high against him that I think we're a little afraid of examining the truth. But we _have_ to."

Shaking his head, McCoy reached across his desk and pressed a computer switch. "Medical log, supplemental. No doubt feeling pressured by circumstances, Captain Spock has requested a regressive memory scan of that time period encompassing the fatal assault on Ensign Reesa Weller. Since Vulcans can resist most any kind of psycho-inducement, the results of such a procedure would be open to question and therefore inadmissible as court evidence. Furthermore, treatment of this kind is considered so morally intrusive by Vulcans that it could well exacerbate the patient's condition. Taking these, and other previously stated factors into account, I cannot recommend psycho-tricording at this time. Let it be noted that I will carry out the procedure as ordered by Admiral Kirk, but under deepest protest. McCoy out."

Their eyes locked and Kirk strode from the office. Using a hall intercom, he ordered Spock's guard and continued on to the bridge. His mood did not improve upon finding the Enterprise warping out of orbit. Hurrying down the bridge steps, he spun the command chair, bringing him face to face with the astonished first officer. "Mister Sulu, why have we left orbit?"

Sulu rose from the chair gaping at the disgruntled admiral as if Kirk had lost his mind. "Sir. Captain Spock—"

"What does the captain have to do with it?" demanded Kirk. He heard whispers from the bridge stations. Straightening, he repeated in a determinedly calmer voice, "Explain, Mister Sulu."

Sulu swallowed hard. "Captain Spock came onto the bridge and personally conveyed your order. We were to leave for Starbase 15 immediately."

Kirk's mind whirled. "You say Spock was _here?"_

"Yes, sir. Only a moment ago."

Kirk's fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, and he used the pain to hold himself together. "Abort those orders. We have an away team on that planet. Return us to our previous position—and _keep_ us there." He was in the turbolift before Sulu could answer.

ooooo

A guttering flame-idol cast hellish shadows over Spock's Vulcan retreat—the cabin that had become a prison cell. After talking to Sulu, Kirk was surprised to find Spock here where he belonged, lost in some sort of meditation. It was hard to believe the Vulcan guilty of issuing false orders, yet it would not be the first time Spock had set the Enterprise on an unauthorized course. Compelled by ancient mating drives, he had once diverted the ship to his home planet for a rendezvous with his betrothed. On another occasion he had locked in an unapproved course for the benefit of his former captain. Kirk would never forget those shocks at finding his trust in his first officer betrayed.

It scarcely compared with the tumult of emotion he felt now. In answer to his query, Spock convincingly replied, "I came from sick bay directly to my cabin."

"Directly. Speaking to no one."

"I shared a turbolift with an Engineering trainee. I do not remember any conversation."

"I see. Then explain how it is that Commander Sulu observed you there only moments ago, ordering the ship to Starbase 15." The bewilderment in Spock's eyes deepened as Kirk continued. "Tell me, are you in the habit of stranding away teams? Or are you in such a rush to get out of here that you forgot all about them?"

"Admiral…" Spock's rough voice wavered as he struggled to maintain his composure. "You say I was on the bridge…issuing orders. Yet I have no memory of

being there. None at all."

Kirk called up the bridge log tape on Spock's desktop computer, but the visual recording squelched any errant hope he might have entertained. Spock was clearly there on the bridge ordering the change of course. Switching off the unit, Kirk stood in silence for a long moment, his eyes on the darkened screen, thinking it through. Then he turned to the captain, his friend, his painful responsibility.

These past weeks he had grown used to the dilation of Spock's eyes, but now he looked long and hard at the evidence of strardus use, with all its implications. A woman was dead and Spock's behavior had just put more lives at risk. Standing there, Kirk remembered the Vulcan ability to influence another's mind, without even touching. He had seen Spock successfully use it to escape captivity. A guard at the door was not enough.

Decisively he said, "It's time to rethink the parameters of your treatment. You've been allowed a lot of freedom—too much freedom, it seems."

Spock seemed calm and accepting. "I told you it was inadvisable for me to stay aboard ship."

"Yes. You did." With a leaden heart, Kirk went to the door and beckoned the security guard inside before addressing Spock. "Captain, I must ask you to come with us. You are under arrest."

ooooo

News of the captain's confinement traveled quickly through the small community of the Enterprise. Though Kirk had kept Weller's accusation quiet, much of the crew already suspected a connection between the ensign's slaying and Spock's arrest.

In the brig, Spock faced his loss of freedom with an outward show of stoicism. The arrest procedure had been handled in a polite, almost apologetic manner that reflected the guards' shock—a brief, solitary walk through the body scanner, the mandatory retinal scan for the purpose of identification. He had exchanged his uniform for yellow coveralls, but was allowed to keep his warming suit underneath.

There was relief when the force field finally engaged behind him, shutting out the guards' embarrassment and pity. Alone, Spock lay on a wall-mounted bunk and passed the idle hours in thought.

He did not blame Kirk. The admiral had acted appropriately in the face of irrefutable evidence. There was no reason to believe the bridge log tape had been altered, or discount the grim facts linking him to Reesa Weller's murder. Spock was well aware of the blank spaces in his memory. Like the drug-hunger ever lurking in the shadows, they mocked him…

ooooo

McCoy nearly jumped out of his skin when someone nudged him. Pretending he had not been caught dozing, he gathered his dignity and swiveled from the lab biocomp. But there was no faking with Nahfia. Worry lines sprouted between the Zaran's tawny eyebrows, accentuating her sultry feline appearance. Sometimes she seemed like a sleek, golden-skinned lioness, though taken part by lovely part, she also looked very human to McCoy.

Noticing the padd in her hand, he grimaced. "More arrests needing medical attention. How many does that make today?"

"Four…so far. The number of incidents seems to be increasing. In all my years with security I've never seen anything like it. But," she added solely for McCoy's benefit, "wearing ourselves out won't help matters."

Setting down the report, she slipped behind him and began gently massaging his shoulders. Warmth spread from her fingertips, soothing his taut muscles as he eased back against her. The woman had a talent for healing, for caring, that made him wonder why she had chosen security work instead of medicine as her profession. Every time she touched him, McCoy marveled at the tender restraint of those powerful Zaran hands, lavishing an old country doctor with attention. They had come a long way since that first kiss last week in his cabin. The happiness she brought him could almost make him forget the rash of shipboard violence and Kirk's continued pressuring to regress Spock. _Almost._

With a sigh he sat up straight. Though he had personally injected the captain with his regular dose of "medication" only an hour ago, he asked, "How's Spock doing?"

Nahfia settled onto the work counter. "Outwardly, still faring well, but one can never say, with a Vulcan. He must find the whole experience terribly distressing."

 _Not half as distressing as he'll find psycho-tricording,_ thought McCoy. Aloud he said, "You _are_ doing your best to make him comfortable?"

She smiled, loosing a pleasant glow of psionic energy. "Stop worrying, Doctor. No matter how crowded it becomes down in Security, the captain will have a cell to himself and every amenity regulations allow. At least _he's_ getting plenty of rest, which is more than I can say for some individuals around here." Her amber eyes glistened in fond reproach. "Hey, I missed you last night. Things were sort of cold on deck five."

On impulse McCoy rose up and kissed her full on the mouth. Despite Nahfia's formidable strength, she exuded a haunting femininity that made him want to slay mythical Vulcan dragons for her. Maybe it was those tender places in her heart that attracted him—the secret yearnings, the private fears, the insecurities of this alien among humans. Or maybe it was just the way she returned his love so freely.

"Missed you too," he whispered huskily, fingering her silken mane. He knew Doctor Fielding was due any time, and the thought of the door opening suddenly made him back off. His and Nahfia's late night trysts had already stirred up enough gossip. Even the admiral had made a sardonic remark or two, and McCoy was not surprised about that. A woman-charmer like Jim Kirk might enjoy the Zaran mate hunt, but he would hardly be interested in lifelong Zaran bonding and the emotional security it offered _._

ooooo

Lately there had been little to do on the bridge but run training drills and brood. The brown mud ball of the aptly designated planet Mega Morbidus monopolized the forward view screen with its unlovely presence. A rich storehouse of minerals, mining potential excellent. Just a tremendous hunk of ore hurtling through Space. Yet looking at it, Kirk felt as if he were staring down a deadly enemy.

An armed guard stood watch at every transporter station to ensure that no one but the trained investigative teams beamed into the danger zone—as if the Enterprise herself were not a danger trap these days. Altercations, fistfights, all sorts of mischief. Seething discontent had the security staff working their tails off, often in collaboration with the medical department.

 _How cozy,_ Kirk mused. The current discipline problems were providing McCoy with 101 excuses to postpone Spock's treatment and make eyes at—

"Admiral."

Kirk jumped guiltily at the sound of McCoy's voice on the intercom. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I have the patient ready." The peeved tone left no doubt as to McCoy's meaning.

"I'm on my way," Kirk said, turning the con over to Sulu. At sickbay a nurse ushered him to the door of a treatment area, then discreetly left him to enter alone. Inside, his eyes settled first on a restraint table—a gleaming tangle of wicked body locks built to contain the most uncooperative of humanoid life. Thankfully, it was empty.

He turned to find Spock in a sort of lounge chair, looking almost relaxed. Perched nearby, McCoy exuded resentment and strained the limits of military courtesy as he said, "Well Admiral, I'm _so_ glad you could make it for the show."

Kirk took the only free seat, one of a discontinued design affectionately dubbed "bun-busters". Shifting his weight against the unyielding blue plastic, he said, "I'm aware that you're acting under protest, Doctor. Your objections have been duly noted, along with the foot-dragging and constant stream of alibis that have delayed this session for days."

" _Alibis!"_ McCoy nearly choked on the word. "Have you looked around sickbay lately? Those 'alibis' are bonefide medical cases. They're telling you this crew is unraveling."

"Is that what's happening?" Kirk shot back. "A mass attack of Space nerves? Some bizarre psychological reaction to Weller's death? More likely this disruptive behavior stems from something Spock brought with him aboard ship—an undetected virus or something even worse. In any case—"

"An _undetected virus?"_ McCoy was on his feet. "Are you suggesting that my medical department has not done its job? For your information, Admiral, there is no pathological agent involved.

"As I was saying," Kirk said loudly, "exploring Spock's memory should be top priority."

"I agree," Spock said with utter composure.

McCoy turned on the Vulcan, scowling. "Damn it, you _would_ agree!"

"Just get on with it," Kirk said tiredly. He felt no satisfaction when McCoy complied, fastening sensor patches to Spock's temples with stiff, angry fingers. Briefly Kirk met the Vulcan eyes—frightening in their acceptance—before Spock closed them, shutting everyone out.

 _But he can't shut us out,_ thought Kirk, wanting suddenly to tear off the patches and cancel this intrusion now. He forced down the gut reaction with an effort that left him sweating.

Watching the admiral sweat gave McCoy a great deal of satisfaction. The psycho-tricorder was a tabletop model with a screen capable of translating memories into movie-like images. The process left nothing at all to privacy. Hoping for a last minute reprieve, he fiddled with its settings as long as he dared, but at last he realized that the delaying tactic was only making things harder on Spock.

"Hell," he muttered, all his usual banter failing him. "I guess we're ready, then. But I'm pulling the plug at the first sign of trouble."

"It's trouble we're looking for," Spock quietly reminded him.

McCoy switched on the tricorder. As static began writhing on the screen, Kirk stood and moved in for a closer look.

"Would you like some popcorn?" McCoy asked him.

"Bones, if you think I'm enjoying this…"

"Gentlemen, please," Spock entreated.

McCoy put Kirk out of his mind and got down to work. "Okay Spock, keep your eyes closed…and relax. You're feeling completely comfortable, even drowsy. Not a worry in the world." His clinical eye noted the lay of Spock's lean fingers and the slow, steady respiration. Responding well to the influx of beta-inhibitors…doing his best to cooperate. Somewhat reassured, McCoy began leading his patient back in time to the fateful hour on Mega Morbidus. Images appeared on the screen. Faces, landscapes, close-ups of alien ruins, the tricorder in Spock's hands. It was the away mission from Spock's point of view.

"You have separated from the others. All but Ensign Weller."

There was a brief climb up a hillside to an eerie-looking ruin. Then the scene focused on one of the many metallic shafts protruding from the ground. And there it stopped.

McCoy observed a corresponding rise in Spock's vital signs and attempted to ease him through the disturbance. "Come ahead now, past the obelisk. Move on…"

Spock's level of distress rose markedly. His fingers dug into the upholstery. The screen was a jumble of static.

"Spock." McCoy spoke with gentle authority. "I'm with you. Jim is with you. Move _ahead."_

Spock's eyes snapped open. He gasped and his black stare locked on some private hell that stiffened every muscle in his body. Yet the screen was remained empty.

"That does it," McCoy said, switching off the tricorder.

Spock reached for his head. Rubbing at the sensor pads, he drew a series of ragged breaths that seemed to steady him.

"Do you remember?" prompted Kirk. "Anything?"

"…Darkness," Spock said, "only darkness…"


	2. Chapter 2

"Doctor." Lauren Fielding looked with concern at the somber figure in the office chair. Had McCoy even noticed her entering? He seemed to be in another world. "Doctor?"

McCoy dragged himself from his thoughts. "Yes, Lauren, what is it?"

"It's time. Why don't you let me give the injection? I can see you're tired."

Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, "You know Spock doesn't like having you around."

"Just this once." She held the sprayhypo up to view. "Loaded and ready."

McCoy considered and gave a shrug. "Sure, why not?" His troubled sigh was lost in the hiss of the door closing behind her.

Lauren had finally learned her way around the ship. Within five minutes she entered the brig. After a standard security clearance scan, she continued past the guard station and turned into the cellblock. Up ahead, a knot of guards filled the corridor, so strangely still that Lauren came to a halt. In the uneasy silence she heard the sickening impact of metal on flesh and a pained grunt. _Was someone hurt?_

Lauren hurried toward the group. At the sound of her boot steps, heads whirled, showing young eyes wide with…guilt…relief?

"Get her out of here!" someone hissed, and a trainee came reluctantly forward to intercept Lauren.

"Sorry Doctor," he said, running his fingers through his hair. "This area is temporarily restricted."

"Oh?" Alerted by more disturbing sounds, Lauren peered toward a cell that the guards were clustered around. She could see the force field was disengaged. "On whose orders?"

He hesitated. "Chief of Security. I must ask you to leave, sir."

There again, she heard it—a threatening feline hiss. The tangle of guards shifted, faces reddening miserably. Lauren raised her voice to command level. "Look, young man, I don't know what's going on back there, but I'm carrying medication for Captain Spock that _must_ be administered _now_."

For an instant she thought the boy might try to stop her, but then his hands dropped helplessly and she barged past him, scattering the nervous security crew. The unlikeliness of what she found left her staring dumbly into the cell for a long, breathless moment.

A prisoner was down. The back of his ultra-yellow coveralls contrasted weirdly with the gray deck and the slim boot planted smack between his shoulder blades. His lean frame seemed crushed beneath the deceptively dainty-looking Nahfia Lonce—an officer known for her just and humane treatment of brig inmates. Yet now the Zaran's serene features were twisted with cruelty as she trained a phaser on Spock's dark head.

Breaking out of shock, Lauren strode forward. "Lieutenant, what do you think you're doing? Secure that weapon and back off!"

Lonce grasped the captain under his arms and roughly dragged him up. Shrugging away from the contact, Spock caught his head in his hands, reeled against the bulkhead and held himself there. Lonce hovered beside him, suddenly looking as meek as a kitten.

"Stand clear!" Lauren snapped, and this time the Security Chief obediently edged aside. Now Lauren saw the thin green track of blood on Spock's cheek, the fresh gash matting the hair above one pointed ear. Furious, she whirled on the Zaran. "What have you done to him?"

The Security Chief gave no reply.

"S..sir," stammered a female trainee, "we were transporting him from the shower room when the captain came at us like…like a madman."

"I find that hard to believe." Lauren touched Spock's shoulder, felt him trembling beneath the yellow fabric. A sharp warning went off inside her. The drug-need should not have been so strong. Quickly she rolled up his sleeve and emptied the sprayhypo into his arm.

But instead of relaxing him, the tremors intensified. A deepening sense of danger warned Lauren to get away, but resisting the impulse, she drew out her medscanner.

"Better move back," urged Lonce. "Jacoby's right about—"

Spock jerked upright and spun around, knocking the scanner from Lauren's hand. He moved like lightning. Another bone-jarring sweep of his arm sent half the security squad crashing to the deck. Lauren leaped for safety, but somehow he was right there again. The Vulcan arm whipped out, locking around her throat in a hostage hold. Trapped, she gasped for breath and clawed at the incredibly powerful muscle. _Much too powerful—he was still convalescing from a near-fatal illness._

Any guard who could still move, scrambled for phasers. Prisoners began to call out from the nearby cells. _"Hey, what's going on now?" "Someone in trouble?"_

Spock's voice was an unrecognizable growl. "Throw down the weapons! Activate the security alert and I'll crush her throat!" He clamped down painfully on Lauren's throat and she began to choke.

"Turn her free!" said the Security Chief, sighting along the barrel of her phaser. "It's all over! Let her go or we'll just stun you both!"

Spock made a derisive sound. "You're not dealing with some _human._ One infinitesimal flex and this woman dies."

They had all seen demonstrations of Vulcan combat skills that defied the human laws of action and reaction. As Lauren fought the corded muscles strangling her, frantic seconds ticked by, then a minute.

" _Now!"_ Spock's command thundered through the cellblock.

Lonce let her weapon drop and signaled the others to disarm. With murmurs of protest they slowly tossed down their phasers until every guard stood empty-handed. "Now let the doctor loose," she urged, "if there is still such a thing as Vulcan integrity."

The words should have affected Spock. To Lauren's chagrin, he only drew her closer. "In the cell," he ordered. "Everyone, even the injured."

Lonce gave a curt nod at Lauren. "Her, too."

Lauren tried to speak, but lacked enough breath to make a sound. With a tortured look, Lonce moved the guards into the cell, and followed.

 _Well, that's it,_ thought Lauren, her heart sinking. She had not wanted to believe some of the stories circulating about Spock, but now it looked as if they were true. With all her strength she resisted him, but Spock activated the force field and abruptly pulled her into a brutal kiss. The imprisoned guards set up a riot of protest as she fought the sickening violation and the sense of evil flooding her. She pummeled, gouged, and kicked at the unyielding Vulcan flesh. Her final defense came instinctively as she bit down hard on his lip. A hot metallic taste startled her tongue and then she was flying. There was no sense of impact—just a startling color burst framing Spock and his bloody mouth, green to deepest green…to black…

ooooo

"Jim, give me an update. How's Captain Spock coming along?"

Kirk sat at the com screen in his quarters, glad for the communication delay in this sector that prevented him from replying in real time. It would be awkward explaining Spock's current situation to Fleet Admiral Nogura. Predictably, Nogura went on to remark about Kirk's extended absence from Starfleet Command. Not that Kirk had been shirking his duties as Chief of Starfleet Operations, but even _he_ was getting a little embarrassed by the delays.

Nogura said, "I'm starting to wonder. Jim, is this your way of wiggling out of the admiralty…?"

The remark threw Kirk off-balance. Maybe the old man was starting to guess how he felt about flying a desk…

His wall intercom whistled, dragging him back to the here and now. Commander Sulu's voice cut through an instant later. "Admiral Kirk, please respond."

Kirk hit the com button at his desk. "Yes, Sulu."

"We have a problem. Captain Spock has escaped and he's holding down the entire Security Section. Sound no alert, he has hostages."

Kirk's stomach twisted into a sick knot as he rushed from his quarters. After consulting on the fly, he joined the response team one deck below Security. Sulu had brought along Doctor McCoy and half a dozen off-duty security personnel. Together, they rode the farthest turbolift and exited a distance from the brig, phasers at ready. Music blasted over the intercom system—an instrumental with a heavy sensual beat that segued into familiar lyrics. _The time to hesitate is through, no time to wallow in the mire…_

"What in Sam Hill is _that_?" McCoy spoke directly into his ear.

Kirk answered in the same way. "Mid-twentieth century rock—the Doors. I piped it through the halls at the Academy. Never got caught, though."

"That was _you?_ Looks like _someone_ figured it out. Spock's lost his frickin' mind…"

 _Very likely,_ Kirk thought, moving ahead. Abruptly the lights went out, taking the emergency wall beacons with them. Now they were functionally blind as well as deaf. Incredibly, the decibels notched up another level. _Come on, baby, light my fire…_

Sulu hunched over a tricorder and took sensor readings. In the glow of the tiny screen, his finger pointed ahead. By feel alone, Kirk set his phaser to wide stun, aimed into the shadows, and squeezed the trigger. The soft green blast revealed an empty corridor. His flesh tingled from the dispersed phaser effect as they went on.

At each turn they repeated the sequence.

Kirk was about to fire again when a green glow broke from the farthest wall and washed toward them. It's beauty scarcely registered in Kirk's mind before the light enveloped him and his muscles went slack. Blackness descended…

ooooo

The lights were back on. Groans sounded nearby and Kirk heard McCoy cursing—actually _heard,_ because the pounding music was gone. Then Kirk's eyes went into fcus.

"Spock!"

The Vulcan stood over him, smiling with arrogant delight. One hand held a phaser centered directly on the admiral's chest. Hairs prickled at the back of Kirk's neck. In the next instant he swung his legs at Spock and simultaneously went for his own phaser. Spock easily hopped aside. As Kirk's fingers scrabbled over the emptiness at his belt, the Vulcan burst into deep laughter.

"Oh Jim…if you could see your face…"

Kirk launched himself at the prison yellow trousers. The kick that slammed his shoulder sent him crashing against a wall. When the initial agony subsided, he found a phaser jammed to his temple, black Vulcan eyes glimmering a challenge into his.

"You've never taken me, never will," Spock snarled. "But go ahead and try."

"Jim." McCoy's voice came from some dark corner of the nightmare. "That phaser is set to kill."

Kirk drew a slow, careful breath and tried to collect his thoughts. "Alright, Spock. You have our cooperation."

"Excellent." The Vulcan's mouth thinned into a tight bruised line as he rose and stretched his legs. "A most sensible course, considering that I have your weapons, your com badges, your security crew."

"Jim." McCoy spoke again. "Look behind him. That's Doctor Fielding. Spock, what the hell have you done to her?"

Kirk cautiously sat up and saw the crumpled body of a blonde-haired woman. She appeared to be breathing. Thinking fast, he turned his eyes on Spock. "You're real big on pushing women around, aren't you? What's the matter? Are men too much of a challenge?"

McCoy touched his leg in warning and Kirk found himself appreciating the doctor's support as the Vulcan eyes narrowed at him. Spock stepped toward him with the phaser, stopped, and rubbed his brow as if pained.

A young security man leaped up and all at once _he_ was staring down the business end of the phaser.

Assuming a kindly-doctor manner, McCoy said, "Spock. If you're hurting, let me help you."

Spock lifted an eyebrow at him. "You mean, 'let me put you to sleep'. I think not, doctor."

"That's the whole trouble," McCoy pressed on. "You're not _thinking_ , man. Use that disciplined mind of yours— _fight this thing!"_

"Thing?" The phaser trembled in Spock's hand. " _Thing?_ This _thing_ is _death_ , Doctor. _Your_ death. Are you ready?"

McCoy paled as he quietly reminded the Vulcan, "You've held my life in your hands before. I can't believe you'd kill me now."

A shadow passed over Spock's face. The phaser dropped by an inch. Taking advantage of the moment, Kirk eased onto one knee. "Spock. A Vulcan cannot… _must not_ …use his strength to dominate others. Look at yourself. What are you _doing?"_

Clearly Spock was undergoing an interior struggle. He seemed about to surrender when a chilling resurgence of hostility steadied him. As the barrel rose on a level with Kirk's throat, Spock smiled and said, "Change of course, Admiral. Starbase 15."

Fear chased over Kirk's spine, his heart pounded wildly, but somehow he made it to his feet alive. Coaxingly he extended his arm. "Just hand over that weapon and we'll talk about it."

In the silence, hostages could be heard shouting from the cellblock. Without taking his eyes from the admiral, Spock moved his phaser to his left hand. It could only mean one thing. Kirk was ready for the blow, and ducked. His arm cut across the Vulcan's, knocking the phaser high. A deadly orange blast vaporized part of the ceiling.

Suddenly Kirk forgot his fear. Fury rose in him like a geyser and the thought filled his mind, _I don't care if you_ _are_ _sick, my friend—you're going to pay!_

With unprecedented speed he caught Spock in a wrestling hold and pried the phaser from him. For the first time in memory he felt his muscles match, then actually overpower Vulcan strength…and it was a strangely delicious feeling. Then Spock went limp against him, and he felt cheated of his victory.

…Wrath swept through Them at the easy surrender. They were not about to slap Spock's wrists and send him back to a comfortable prison cell. With a murderous shout They struck down the unresisting Vulcan. Spock slammed to the deck and They slugged him twice again before wrenching the yellow-clad arm into a vicious hammerlock. The Vulcan cried out in pain and They straddled him, forcing the arm still higher.

"Hurt, does it?" They growled.

"Jim!" came McCoy's hoarse protest.

A curious pleasure in _that,_ too—almost as fine as the low hiss of Vulcan agony.

A firm hand shook Them.

Kirk shot a glance over his shoulder, expecting McCoy, but found instead the feline face of Nahfia Lonce. Had someone released the hostages? For an instant he felt violently ill—such was the inner sense of expulsion—then the dark rage was gone from him.

"Admiral," she said. "Sir, the captain is no longer a threat. _I'll_ deal with him."

Numbly Kirk released the arm twisted beneath his weight and struggled to his feet. McCoy was bent over Lauren Fielding, a medscanner in hand.

"She's taken a beating," the doctor said, "but she'll be okay." After ordering a stretcher for Fielding, he scanned Kirk and whistled softly. "Acute exhaustion. Either you've been pushing yourself too hard, or…" Leaning closer, he spoke under his breath. "What the hell happened? One second you were cool and rational, the next second you went absolutely wild. There was no reason to be so rough once you had Spock down." He came to a thoughtful pause. "This really _is_ starting to have all the earmarks of an alien influence."

Kirk gave a weary nod. His spirits were leaden, his thinking processes sluggish as he glanced uneasily at Spock. The Vulcan was on his feet, hands secured behind him in energy cuffs, eyes rigidly downcast. A sad, beaten version of himself, but then weren't they all—all except Nahfia Lonce, who glowed with an energy that Kirk envied _. Zaran_ _vitality_. Feeling totally emasculated, he turned away.

ooooo

McCoy was not in the best of moods after treating his young associate for one helluva pounding, but he was thankful that she had not been sexually violated like Weller. Leaving Lauren in Doctor Chapel's care, he went to the primary examination room where the assailant was seated on a table, cuffed and under guard.

McCoy squinted sourly at the prison coveralls. Lately he had seen too damn many of them. Even if this crisis went on forever, he would never get used to seeing _Spock_ in one of those monkey suits. The brilliant yellow accentuated a very fresh bruise on the Vulcan's cheekbone.

" _That's_ brand new," he said, glancing over at Nahfia and Jacoby.

When Nahfia made no comment, McCoy unzipped Spock's coveralls to the waist and opened the warming suit underneath. The man looked like he had been used as a punching bag. _Jim didn't do all of that._

"Lie down," he ordered. Wordlessly Spock stretched flat while McCoy studied the readings displayed on the adjacent wall monitor. "A number of sizeable contusions," he said aloud. A scalp wound, not serious, but the right shoulder's a mess." As he palpated the area, a snicker escaped one of the guards. McCoy jerked his head around. "Alright, who's the comedian? Jacoby!"

The color drained from the young woman's face, but it was Nahfia who came forward, soundly thumping her chest. "No, me! I saw what this bastard did to Doctor Fielding! I had a front row seat! And if Kirk hadn't jumped him, we'd probably all be in stasis with Weller right about now!"

McCoy felt torn between professional ethics and the woman he loved. He was not happy with Spock either, but the preliminary investigation into his escape had brought questions of misconduct by the Zaran. Until this moment McCoy had not believed her capable of mistreating a prisoner. Now, he wondered…

"Nahfia," he said levelly, "no one understands what's behind these events. We might learn more at the meeting Admiral Kirk scheduled for later."

" _Events?"_ Nahfia focused on Spock, eyes narrowed and unforgiving. "I don't call murder and rape 'events'!"

Her flagrant hostility forced McCoy to pull rank. "You could use some rest. In fact, I prescribe it. As of now."

The smooth planes of her face hardened. "I take my orders from the admiral…and that means top security until this murdering half-breed is locked tight in his cell."

An angry flush began at McCoy's neck and transformed into a chill of fear. Not quite trusting himself, he eyed the diagnostic panel. Softly he said, "I don't imagine the admiral used quite those words."

"Doctor." Spock's voice was very low. "Doctor, if you will just continue the examination…" The weary, defeated sound of his voice barely registered as McCoy looked at Nahfia, saw the curl of her lip, the militant drum of fingers over her phaser grip.

All at once he few at the Zaran, arms flapping like the wings of an angry bird. "Out! Outside, the two of you, before I perform a couple of premature autopsies!"

They retreated into the corridor, though it seemed to McCoy that the Zaran smirked on her way out. After the door slid shut on them, he stood in place, piecing himself back together. He shouldn't have let Nahfia's remarks set him off. _What was happening to him? To her? To all of them? If even Spock could no longer be trusted…_

"That could not have been easy for you," Spock said from the table. "Doctor…I am sorry."

McCoy swung around and stared at him, surprise tingling into fresh fear as he searched his memory. When had the Vulcan last apologized for anything? It occurred to McCoy that banishing the guards might have been a fatally foolish mistake. Who knew what Spock could do, even with his hands cuffed behind his back?

Taking a slow breath, McCoy said, "You'll need some kailoscopic treatments for that shoulder. If you'll come to the booth…" And he bustled ahead, despising the nervousness that made every move feel unnatural.

"Doctor." Spock eased himself off the table. "At the brig. After I…came to myself, I observed Doctor Fielding lying on the deck. What did Lieutenant Lonce mean? Is the doctor…alive? And did I…"

McCoy paused in his preparations only long enough to glance at Spock and impatiently wave him to the treatment booth. The kailoscope was a simple reclining chair surrounded by regenerative field conductors. As Spock stretched out on the cushions, McCoy swiftly levered the focal discs into position and activated the machine. The kailoscope hummed to life.

"Doctor?"

"She's beat all to hell, but alive. And no, Spock…you _didn't_."

McCoy upped the power, bathing the Vulcan's torn ligaments with curative energy. With relief he watched his patient yield to the warm, relaxing sensation until the Vulcan eyes closed in a semblance of sleep. There were no more questions.

ooooo

Though Nahfia remembered feeling drained before taking Captain Spock back into custody, They had been consumed with feverish energy ever since. Now, escorting the prisoner from sickbay back to Security filled Them with a stimulating sense of mastery. Spock was nothing without Them—even after kailoscopy he was a broken, pathetic joke at the point of their phaser.

 _But isn't it wrong to feel this way?_ wondered Nahfia.

 _No._ The old rules no longer seemed to matter, any more than the confused areas of recent memory. All that mattered now was that this felt good to _Them._

At the admittance desk They dismissed Jacoby before moving Spock, in beastlike compliance, past the crowded detention cells and around a corner. Here They were alone with their prisoner. They disengaged the hall monitor. Standing with a hand on one hip, They looked the defeated Vulcan over, and arrogance boiled up in Them molten-hot, hungry for release.

"Well now, wasteling. Aren't you a sight?"

 _…Wasteling._ At the peculiar word Spock lifted his eyes to the gloating Zaran. Her use of the term seemed very significant, very important somehow, but once again memory failed him.

"Stupid slime!" she snarled. "Just can't quite figure it out, can you?'

Shoving him against a wall, she forced his legs apart and began to feel along the form-fitting coveralls. Spock could think of no logical reason for the manual search. On entering Security he had passed through the standard body scan, which was far more efficient. But from bitter experience he knew that protesting such treatment would only aggravate the situation. Here, he was only another inmate in the Security Chief's brig, and these days Nahfia Lonce did not always follow Starfleet procedures. Perhaps if he maintained an attitude of indifference, she would lose interest in the game. Instead, she grew bolder.

Spock's endurance snapped. With his arms still cuffed behind him, he kicked back at her legs. A fist struck him at kidney level and he sagged against the wall, breathless with pain.

"Tell me," she purred in his ear, "tell me all about Weller, all about that pretty little doctor, the one you dream about at night."

He managed to say, "Is this an interrogation?"

For answer she seized hold of him and thrust him into his cell. Her boot darted into his path and he tripped. As he hit the deck, laughter washed over him, a humorless jeering that stopped abruptly when he failed to rise.

In the sudden quiet the Zaran's breathing took on a maniacal quality. "Get up!" she ordered through clenched teeth.

Spock rose to his knees by slow stages, senses on full alert. Her froze as a phaser barrel poked his back, a few strategic millimeters below his shoulder blade. A stunning discharge so near his heart might kill him. Just now the thought of death held no terror, but he could not abide dying in this miserable uncertainty.

"Lieutenant," he said in a tone of respect, "I know only what I have been told about Ensign Weller and Doctor Fielding. I have no further information to offer."

The Zaran gripped the back of his neck. Her breath was hot in his ear, her words suggestive. "But you _want_ to remember, don't you? You want to remember _everything."_

Spock forcibly shielded his mind from the ugliness he sensed in the Security Chief. Lonce disgusted him. Her swift, inexplicable transitions from Starfleet officer to sadistic bully were truly frightening, for they forced him to admit the possibility of similar transitions in himself. The dark corners of his mind mocked him with their sinister shadows. This was something more than strardus, and perhaps even worse. What manner of animal might lurk there, awaiting its next escape?

Far down the corridor a voice called for the Security Chief. The Zaran sighed. Yanking off his cuffs, she stepped clear and engaged the force screen. Spock remained on his knees, cautiously flexing his arms until the sound of her boots faded into the distance. Then he rose and went to his bunk. For a long while he sat holding his painful shoulder, struggling to think beyond the feel of Zaran hands on his body, beyond the weight of Jim Kirk pinioning him to the deck, but the sensations mingled crazily in his mind. At last he stretched out on the narrow bunk and shielded his eyes from the corridor lights. Perhaps if he were to meditate…perhaps then his mind would clear…perhaps. But sleep claimed him.

ooooo

Kirk could not get the images out of his mind. Over and over again he saw Spock holding him at phaserpoint, felt the dark eyes raking him over with evil intent. Then the adrenaline-charged grappling, an instant of murky confusion before finding himself astride the Vulcan, torturing his sick friend…and thoroughly _enjoying_ it.

 _What had gotten into him?_ The memory made so ashamed that he had gladly acquiesced to McCoy's order for rest and secluded himself in his cabin. There was a lot to think about before the meeting, a lot to straighten out in his mind.

What _had_ gotten into him at the brig? His embarrassing experience did seem to suggest a controlling influence at work—some kind of outside force. Knowing that McCoy shared the suspicion made Kirk reasonably sure he was not just inventing a boogieman to excuse his own behavior, and Spock's. Reasonably _,_ but not completely sure. Just now he felt too close to the problem to make an unbiased judgment. Over the course of his career he had seen what stress could do to people. Good people. And for Spock there was the added element of strardus addiction.

As the numbers on his chronometer blinked by, Kirk went over and over the preliminary reports of the events leading up to Spock's escape and everything that followed. The security cameras had been turned off— _by whom?_ So he had only the reports filed by eyewitnesses, some of which wildly disagreed. But everyone concurred on one point: upon his escape, Spock had behaved like…a man _possessed._

ooooo

Sitting down to his computer, Doctor McCoy studied the latest comparative analysis readout. The post-episode characteristics of the violent crewmembers showed some interesting similarities. Mental depression, confused thinking, and of course the ever-present fatigue. Lord, _he_ was tired, just dealing with it…

The computer screen blurred and was temporarily forgotten as his thoughts turned once again to Nahfia. Before today he had never even come close to quarreling with her. Who would have thought it would hurt like this, as if it were Jocelyn all over again, walking out on their marriage…

Sighing, McCoy rose from the computer and left sickbay in Doctor Chapel's care. _Spock's champion. She refuses to believe he's guilty. Let's hope she's right._

There was not much traffic in the corridors. Deck five was especially quiet. He paused at Kirk's door, then walked on past until he reached the Security Chief's cabin. Was she off-duty yet? Her door had been programmed to open at his touch, but not being sure of his welcome, he pressed the buzzer instead. A long, nerve-wracking moment passed and he was about to turn away, when the door slid open.

Nahfia blinked at him and pushed at her disheveled mane. Then she was in his arms, weeping. It took the better part of an hour to calm her. She had no memory of their confrontation in sickbay and could not even explain her tears. Confusion, depression, fatigue _—_ all the signs were plainly there. Bleakly McCoy knew he would be entering yet another medical report in his log.

ooooo

Kirk awoke from a brief nap and forced himself to the mess hall for some black coffee and a light dinner. His wasn't the only dark mood, he soon noticed. All over the ship, morale was at a dangerous low. He arrived at the briefing room knowing that the situation could not continue on like this, and his first glimpse of Engineer Scott made it all the more certain.

"Admiral," Scott greeted him sheepishly. Fingering a puffy, blackened eye, he explained, "A wee bit o' trouble this afternoon. Two lads in Engineering went at it, and well, I caught a fist."

Kirk nodded grimly. As he watched the other officers arrive, he could not help wishing that Spock were among them. All the ship's departments were represented. The time for secrecy was over. For days he had been recording the captain's log in private, hoping to spare Spock public disgrace, but the word was definitely out, and if there was any possibility of an alien influence, everyone needed to be on guard.

Kirk took a chair at the head of the table and waited for everyone to be seated before opening the ship-wide intercom. "Attention all personnel. You may have heard rumors concerning Captain Spock…" He paused long enough to meet McCoy's narrowed eyes. The air seemed to quiver with expectation—all the way to the brig's cellblock. _Sorry Spock,_ he thought ruefully. "Some of you are aware of the problems in Security today. You may be aware of other violent incidents throughout the ship, resulting in arrests. The captain is among them. Spock is being held pending investigation into various incidents…including the death of Ensign Weller." There were no shocked murmurs. He pressed on. "I realize you were looking forward to shore leave at Starbase 15, but for now we must remain in orbit…" _At the scene of the crimes._ Remembering his own behavior in the Security cellblock, he stared at the tabletop, unmoving. Officers shifted in their seats.

Kirk gathered his thoughts. "There is reason to suspect these…violent occurrences may have been instigated by…an outside force. And there is reason to…to believe that this force is still among us. Therefore…" he stumbled to an uncertain stop. "Therefore, I am calling upon every one of you to…to be alert to any unusual behavior and…report it immediately."

Snapping off the intercom, he forced his attention onto the sober-faced men and women seated around the table. They were a good group—steady, courageous, their willingness to obey him shining from their eyes. He should have felt touched and strengthened by such loyalty. Instead, he felt overwhelmed by the thought of so many people depending on him. And he did not know what more to add.

At last he said, "The situation is serious. If you have anything to offer…to suggest…"

It was uncomfortably apparent that they expected something more from him.

McCoy cleared his throat and reported the latest medical data on shipboard injuries as well as the physical and psychological aftereffects of the violent outbursts afflicting the crew. First Officer Sulu advised that both the planet and the ship be quarantined and asked if Starfleet command had been advised of the situation.

"I'm about to do just that," Kirk replied, when in fact he had not even thought about it. His officers were leading _him._

Embarrassed, he wrapped up the meeting as gracefully—and quickly—as possible. He was in the corridor waiting for the lift when a hand settled on his shoulder. Even before looking, he knew it was McCoy.

"Jim," the doctor said in a low, taut voice. "I'd like a word with you in private."

Kirk pressed the lift button a second time. "Later, Bones. I have work to do."

"Five minutes, Jim."

With a sigh, Kirk rubbed at a growing ache in his temple. Another five minutes probably wouldn't make any difference—for the Enterprise, for Spock, for any of them. But McCoy had that stubborn look he had come to recognize over the years…and the last thing he wanted was a lecture. The lift arrived and he stepped inside.

McCoy joined him. Before the computer could request a destination, the determined doctor faced Kirk head-on. "Jim, what's wrong with you?"

Aggravated, Kirk said, "Bridge."

"I'll answer for you. It started after the cellblock incident. You feel as if the burden of responsibility is crushing you. You're worn out, depressed, scared out of your pants. It is all you can do to follow one thought with another—and frankly, there is a question in my mind regarding your fitness to command."

Through his anger Kirk saw the truth in McCoy's words. He was suffering from every symptom of what the doctor called "post-episodic syndrome". The doctor would be well within his rights as Chief Surgeon to relieve him of command. He tried unsuccessfully to smile. "Was I really that bad in there?"

"I think you know the answer."

Kirk's hands were shaky and so was his voice. "I take it this is an invitation to sickbay."

"After what happened this afternoon, we should do a complete physical and psychological workup." Worry was evident on the doctor's face. "Jim, you're not made of durasteel…"

"Agreed," Kirk said, feeling the weight of his mortality. "I'll be down as soon as I'm through with Headquarters."

McCoy was relieved. "I'm glad you're not fighting me on this." The doors opened onto the bridge. "While we're testing, there's something I want to run by you. It concerns Spock's memory…"

ooooo

Back in the lab, McCoy removed a vial of blue liquid from his safe and held it up to the light. The glass felt warm, as if it contained a living thing—or maybe it was the chill of his hands that made it seem that way.

"Dear Lord," he murmured, "what am I about to suggest?"

A tendril of caring thought nudged him from across the ship and he tried to shut it out—but he needed Nahfia so badly. He found himself reaching for the love she offered him, clinging to her Zaran energy as firmly as the vial in his hand. _This drug that had helped save Spock's life—this poison that had enslaved a proud Vulcan._

McCoy stared at the Saurian strardus. _Was his lover's welfare more precious to him than the wellbeing of a friend?_ He shook his head in denial. _No,_ _it's not only Nahfia. It's the entire crew…_


	3. Chapter 3

Spock returned his dinner tray to the disposal chute and lay on his bunk, staring at the red monitor glow on the ceiling. Most of Kirk's general announcement had not surprised him, but with so many arrests, why had he named only Spock in the bulletin? _Such special_ _attention._ Yes, and Spock's body still ached from the special attention Kirk had given him this afternoon.

Spock detected the stirring of self-pity and refused it. Kirk was a man of strong emotions, and had doubtless been provoked. Whether Spock himself or some monster inside him took over the Security Section and harmed Lauren Fielding, what right had he to complain of a little rough treatment— _or_ public humiliation?

He brought his mind to bear on the admiral's halting manner of delivery. Jim Kirk never had difficulty expressing himself. He was a strong leader, so confident and decisive that some considered him brash. In the early days of their association, Spock had sometimes shared that uncomplimentary view, but over the years he had come to appreciate Kirk's style of command. The friendship that evolved between them had affected Spock more profoundly than any other relationship in his adult life. Jim's humanity had helped Spock in his ongoing effort to understand and accept the human part of himself. And just now that part of Spock was hurting.

A Vulcan should be at home in solitude, but the miasma of his thoughts made him long for the distraction of friendly companionship and a few honest answers. He felt tormented by the clouded memories and vague impressions of his prison break. Turning to the wall, he hid his face from the curiosity of a passing sentry. But suffering the guard's discourteous stare was preferable to the tides of drug-hunger, the loss of mental acuity, the fear of slipping dangerously out of control.

If only he could meditate effectively. If only he could shatter the walls barring from the lost memories and find peace in the _knowing_ , however painful. _If_ —the thought came, unbidden— _if_ _only he could be sure of Jim's continuing friendship._

He closed his eyes as if that might shut out all thoughts of Kirk, but it did not. Through the years he had supported the admiral through innumerable difficulties, never losing faith, never asking any return for a loyalty that came so natural. Yet now, when he himself was in dire need of support, it seemed Jim would not take the time to visit…to _explain._ It should not matter, but it _did._ Alone and lonely, Spock realized that he had come to depend far too much on the human…

Evening progressed on the Enterprise, though in the brig there was little to mark time or ease its slow passage. Spock continued his study of Gamman signing on his library viewer. For the purpose of exercise he paced until the boring ritual brought him back to his bunk, restless and dissatisfied.

At 2100 hours he emerged from a restless nap as the cellblock lights dimmed. Boot steps approached from the guard station, brisk and authoritative. _Lonce again._ Spock remained still while the Security Chief ogled him through the transparent energy screen. After a time she left, but the moment of relief ended when more boots stopped outside the cell. Spock tried detaching himself from his surroundings, from the maddening sense of being watched like an animal on display. His urgent need for an injection made it difficult to manage a rising anger.

"Are you awake?" a man asked.

Relief swept through Spock at the sound of Kirk's voice and was promptly suppressed by cool suspicion. _So he had come at last. Why?_ Rolling off his bunk, he noted that the ceiling monitor had been deactivated. The force field rippled into place behind Kirk. They were alone in the cell, completely alone.

"How's the arm?" Kirk said after an awkward moment.

"The injury is not serious," Spock replied.

"So Bones tells me." More silence, then he burst out and said, "Hell, this isn't working! You must realize that I had to stop you…any way I could."

"I wouldn't know," Spock said. "I do not remember…but your immoderate use of force would suggest that." He watched Kirk's face redden.

"You…weren't yourself, Spock. I saw an opening and went for it, but I…just went too far."

Fear shone in the admiral's eyes—the old fear of losing command? Had the situation aboard ship deteriorated to such a point? Kirk's command had always been as important to him as self-mastery to a Vulcan. Spock wondered if, ironically, Jim had come seeking reassurance from _him._ With some bitterness he asked, "Why are you telling me this? Coming here, unguarded, is an unnecessary risk for the ship's commander. Have you forgotten Ensign Weller? Have you forgotten Doctor Fielding? You are not safe with me."

"Then I'm not safe anywhere." Kirk closed the distance between them, physically demonstrating his trust. "And what about _your_ safety? Can I guarantee that?" He gripped Spock's uninjured shoulder and his voice faltered. "I know there have been abuses here in the brig. It's everywhere now. Even I've been affected and I'm still feeling the aftereffects."

It took Spock a moment longer than it should have to make the connection. "Immoderate force," he thought aloud, irritated that he had not deduced it on his own. "Then you were not in control of yourself when…"

"No. I wasn't. At first I remembered a little of it, but now even that's faded."

Spock nodded. The pain he sensed in Kirk cried out to him for some response. "Commanding a starship is seldom easy," he observed, "but you have actually thrived on it. Can our current circumstances be any worse than the many others you've handled successfully in the past? I have every confidence that you will also see the Enterprise through this crisis."

Kirk seemed to draw strength from the assurance. Withdrawing his hand, he paced the cell, looking as tense as Spock felt. "It's not just my imagination. This thing is real, and it's spreading. But what _is_ it? A disease? A presence? Some disruptive form of energy? All our medical and scientific equipment have failed to isolate the problem—but it's right here, aboard ship."

Out of long habit, Spock ventured to say, "I would suggest leaving the area. Perhaps then—" Kirk's eyes stopped him. The admiral had abruptly ceased pacing.

"No, Spock. That's exactly what you wanted. It's what you've wanted since this whole thing began." Kirk stared for a long moment before adding, "We _have_ to get at some answers while there's still time."

"Through me," Spock surmised, and Kirk's guilty expression confirmed it. All Spock's instincts recoiled from the prospect of more psychological probing. "Of course. I was the first."

"Tell me there is another way," Kirk said, but the silence between them stretched. Regaining his composure, he went to the security screen and summoned McCoy, who had apparently been waiting just out of sight.

Spock's eyes went to the doctor's hands, searching for a sprayhypo, finding none. It was past time for the injection. His hunger for strardus was becoming acute.

The Chief Surgeon looked worn. "Spock, we've been going over the record of your memory scan, and we both agree that the severe resistance encountered as you were taken back in time would rule out any further use of the psycho-tricorder."

"But if we could only find out what happened to you at the ruins," Kirk put in, "there's a good chance of putting a stop to this…this reign of violence." Obviously ill at ease, he looked to McCoy. "Bones has an idea."

A twitch tugged at the corner of McCoy's mouth. "Spock…they say that Vulcans never forget…and it's true, isn't it? Eidetic memory—nothing is _ever_ lost."

Spock willed his hands to unclench. _Where was this leading?_

The doctor went on, "So the memories _must_ be there, Spock, only you're blocking them. It's as if you've thrown up a wall, and we need to tear that wall down. Perhaps, give the proper incentive…"

"Proper incentive." The two men were a study in human remorse…and pity. Without being told, Spock suspected what they were about to say. A deep tremor passed through his body. "Are you suggesting…a withdrawal of strardus?"

"Dammit," McCoy swore, "I'm a doctor—it's my job to preserve life. If that weren't true, I would never consider such a thing. But Spock, it might work. If you want something, need something enough to tear down that wall yourself…"

"Can it be," Spock suggested, "that inordinate concern for one particular life is influencing your medical judgment?" Dampness gathered in McCoy's eyes, but Spock could not contain his rising anger. "Can it be that worry over Lieutenant Lonce's erratic behavior has given rise to this idea of yours? You are so fond of calling yourself a doctor. Well then, doctors do not _inflict_ pain, they relieve it."

"Spock…" Kirk's voice held the dismay of someone innocent of ulterior motives, a man wishing to be done with a dirty business as quickly and cleanly as possible. But for Spock, it would be neither quick nor clean. "Spock, personal feelings only make this harder…for everyone. The situation aboard ship is serious—if there were _any_ other way to get at the information locked in your mind—vital, potentially lifesaving information."

McCoy rallied. "You'd be closely monitored, never in any real danger."

"Would I?" Fighting down rage, Spock confronted him. "Have you any idea what you are asking?"

Kirk reached into an inner pocket and brought out a sprayhypo loaded with a blue ampule. "For now, no one will force you. For now, the choice is yours."

The moment they left the cell, Spock injected himself and hurled the spent hypo against the force screen, taking pleasure in the sizzling, repellant burst of energy.

After the drug rush subsided, he lay pondering the various concepts of duty, morality, and personal ethics. The more he examined them in all their intricacy, the more entangled and confusing the issues became. Loyalty to a commanding officer and responsibility to the crew often demanded personal sacrifice. But did the current situation really warrant the kind of sacrifice Kirk and McCoy were asking, when the outcome was so uncertain? Spock's stay in the brig had isolated him from the ship's workings and as a prisoner such information was denied him. How could he reach an intelligent decision without knowing all the facts? Should he abandon himself to torture out of a blind military duty? As expiation for Weller and Doctor Fielding?

 _No._ Tomorrow he would ask the admiral for a briefing and perhaps, under the circumstances, Kirk would relent. Meanwhile, he considered the possibility that whatever lurked in the shadowy corners of his psyche was influencing him even now. A shiver of crept up his spine. He might reject an excruciating ordeal because _It_ did not want him uncovering vital information.

As Spock wrestled with his thoughts, a tiny red gleam overhead indicated he was once more under surveillance. 0100 hours was fast approaching with the promise of another injection. Turning his mind from the hunger, he focused on the annoying bubble lens. Night and day it stared down, a cold unblinking eye monitoring his every move. He was discovering that loss of freedom was not the worst form of punishment. Rather, it was the loss of _privacy._

The red monitor eye winked off. Soon, Spock heard the purposeful footsteps he had come to dread. Lieutenant Lonce never seemed to rest for long. In a moment the Chief of Security was standing outside his cell.

"My, my, still awake?" Lonce pretended surprise. "That superior Vulcan brain of yours must be working overtime tonight."

Spock ignored the mockery. He lay perfectly still on his bunk, wary of Lonce as she drew a phaser and entered the cell. For once he wished the darkened lens were observing this, sending a clear picture to the guard station. A sense of impending danger surged hot blood to his muscles and set his shoulder throbbing.

"Are you lonely? What's the matter baby, hasn't anyone lit your fire lately?"

Spock did not understand the reference. Lonce had reached his side. "Damn you," she exploded, her boot slamming the bunk, "answer me!" She moved again and the boot caught him in the ribs. Before he could react, the Zaran landed another kick. Then he was on his feet, poised to defend himself. Every breath stabbed him. _Cracked ribs, perhaps even broken._

"Clumsy of you to fall out of bed," she sneered, brandishing her phaser. "Silly wasteling."

There it was again—that contemptuous word, _wasteling._ Spock sensed the deck slipping from under his feet and dizziness threatened him. He glanced downward, struggling to maintain his balance. The flooring _looked_ solid.

The Zaran laughed. "Afraid? Is your puny little world falling apart? Come here, I'll give you a dose of tender comfort… _wasteling_."

The memory was so near, it teased Spock's mind. If only he could grasp it! His side felt as if it was tearing apart, but plakir-fee had robbed him of the ability to control pain. All he could do was grit his teeth. "Lieutenant." He forced out the respectful title. "Your behavior runs completely contrary to—"

Lonce smiled and compressed the trigger. Her phaser discharged. There was a micro-instant of astonishment, then Spock's pain vanished in the blast, leaving only the question: _Why?_ _Why_ _?_ But as his legs collapsed under him, the answer slipped back out of reach and he tumbled into oblivion…

ooooo

 _Sounds in the dark…voices rising, falling on a distant tide of argument…_

 _"How can you consider doing anything so unethical? It's_ _his_ _decision, not ours! We told him!"_

 _"_ _You're_ _the one who told him! And don't speak to me of ethics!_ _You_ _were the one pushing hard for the psycho-tricorder—and you sure didn't ask Spock's permission before you tore up his shoulder! Did you, admiral?"_

 _"This is different, and you know it! Doctor, I order you—"_

 _Jarring sounds, curses, someone bumping into him…_

 _A fight,_ Spock realized. From the murky depths he struggled with his phaser-stunned, drug-starved senses, fiercely willing his eyes open. He succeeded. Brilliant light stabbed through his head and his stomach churned with nausea. He tried to rise. He found his limbs clamped into Doctor McCoy's restraint table.

A face appeared over him, cruelly determined above the hand wielding a sprayhypo. And Spock knew with aching certainty what its ampule contained.

McCoy waved the hypo and smiled. "Here it is, wasteling. All you have to do is remember. You _want_ to remember, don't you…?"

Spock's body shuddered with need. _What had become of Jim? Was he hurt? Dead? Or had he also become a part of this?_ Panicking at the thought of his helplessness, he screamed.

With a knowing, sadistic smile McCoy placed the hypo on Spock's chest. Tugging at his restraints, Spock momentarily forgot the doctor, forgot Jim, forgot everything but the ravening hunger in his veins.

"Diabolical stuff," whispered McCoy. "Come on now, _can't_ you remember? _I_ can. The two of us—together."

 _The two of us? Together? What could it mean?_

Spock seethed with hatred for the doctor as he yanked still harder at the restraints. Was this how it happened before? Losing all control? Before, on Mega Morbidus…?"

 _…A star burned low in the crimson sky, casting a fiery glow over the barren landscape._ _So like Vulcan_ _, thought Spock. If not for the alien ruins he could almost envision himself in the desert surrounding his hometown, ShiKahr._

 _He glanced over his shoulder, past Ensign Weller. In the distance, members of the science team were finishing their assignments and starting for the rendezvous point. Spock knew he must join them. It would not do for him to arrive late after Admiral Kirk had graciously allowed him this opportunity._

 _Perhaps it was a touch of homesickness that urged him onward, perhaps it was dissatisfaction with the day's findings. With only ten minutes to spare, he considered sending Weller back with the sample case. But landing party procedure stated that they work in pairs. Taking Weller along, he hiked up a rubble-strewn incline one last time. At the top he came to a watchful halt. Shadows checkered the ancient site, bold fingers of darkness that stretched from the geometric grouping of obelisks at its center. The structure that once enclosed the odd collection had long since given way to harsh planetary elements, yet the exposed obelisks showed no sign of weathering. Each metallic form was engraved with strange hieroglyphs. Once more he set his tricorder to analyzing the metal and for a startling instant the obelisk seemed to register internal energy._

 _Spock contained his excitement. Most probably he had picked up his own life energy refracted by minerals in the area. Sensor bounce was such a problem that they had mainly gathered samples for shipboard study. Unfortunately there would be no data anytime soon on the alien material of these obelisks. Chiseling, chemical stripping, and even phasering had failed to slice away even the tiniest sample. The substance was unlike anything Spock had ever encountered before. Intrigued, he reached out and brushed the durable gray surface with his fingertips…_

 _…And his mind exploded._

 _As the shock lessened, he became aware of his body's movement. He—no,_ _it_ _was walking upright, carrying him along by its own volition! Senses reeling with vertigo, Spock commanded his wayward limbs to obey him, but muscle and bone continued their purposeful, independent journey. Sand crunched beneath his boots—he heard the sound resonating from a peculiar distance. Then the point of view shifted, bringing Ensign Weller into sight._

 _Working to calm himself, Spock turned his mind inward, seeking the source of impairment. Just beyond conscious thought he met a rigid barrier—behind it, a Presence laughed at his effort to penetrate it. The fruitless battle continued as his body led Weller underground, into a passage dimly lit by failing light globes._

 _An indignant yelp drew Spock's attention outward. He found the ensign lying on the ground, her uniform jacket torn. By the shock on Reesa Weller's face, Spock realized that he was somehow responsible, and the unconscionable act was only a prelude to more violence._

 _He could not stop! Though his sense of outrage narrowed to a fiery pinpoint, the brutal actions continued while the Other laughed long and loud from Spock's throat. Sadistic pleasure overwhelmed Them as They seized the struggling ensign and thrust her against a wall. Hands ripped at Weller's clothing and struck the bared human flesh. They heard her cry out, and reveling in their boundless strength, hurled her back into the dirt…_

Repulsed by the memories, Spock forced his mind outward, only to find McCoy gloating over him with the hypo ready. "Go ahead, Vulcan…remember _everything_. Enjoy…and then we'll enjoy _this_ together…"

 _…Rising from the battered body of Spock's shipmate, they smiled in anticipation, thinking of the many people aboard the Enterprise and beyond. They emerged above ground in the warm silence of evening and stretched beneath the stars, savoring each breath and sound and sight of corporeal life. Truly, they were free! After millennia of imprisonment, free to travel unhindered from host to host, living as They chose, taking whatever They willed. There was joy in knowing They had outlasted their jailers…_

ooooo

His head spinning, Kirk slowly rose to his knees from the sickbay floor. McCoy packed quite a wallop for a skinny guy. Kirk could not recall the exact punch that decked him—there had been too many to keep track of. He only remembered falling, defenseless, frustrated in his need to rescue—

 _Spock!_

His eyes focused on the restraint table. The Vulcan lay trapped in its metallic embrace, face contorted with agony as McCoy bend over him. The painful knowledge of his failure froze Kirk for an instant. Then urgency snapped him out of it and he shouted, "Doctor, stand aside!"

McCoy turned, a demonic grin spreading over his face.

Scrambling to his feet, Kirk slapped at his com badge. "Security to sickbay, on the double!" Then he went for McCoy.

The doctor stood ready, arms prepared to grapple as they circled one another.

"Give it up, Bones," Kirk said, though deep down he knew this was no longer Leonard McCoy.

Kirk dove for him. As they locked together, a chill passed through the admiral, an eerie whisper of something horribly familiar. He felt his muscles weakening. With his eyes locked on McCoy's glittering animal gaze, he abruptly threw his weight sideways. McCoy was caught unprepared. The thrust of his tremendous strength carried him forward. Arms flailing, he overbalanced and fell into a scanner hood. Sparks erupted from a shorted circuit panel.

As McCoy picked himself up, Kirk eyed the distance between them and began circling again. He threw a punch, to no effect. An iron fist rammed his gut, ripping away his breath in a blaze of pain. The McCoy-thing snatched him off his feet and hurled him through the air.

Kirk crashed into a cabinet. Glass shattered. A feeling of numbness and warmth spread over his back and for a stunned moment he lay facedown, wondering abstractedly if he were paralyzed. Then a boot landed between his shoulder blades, aggravating the glass shards imbedded there, and Kirk knew all his nerves were still intact. He choked off a scream.

"Oh come on," urged the McCoy voice, "get up and fight me. It brings twice the pleasure in ultimately killing you. And…" he ground home his point with a boot, "be forewarned, I _will_ take you life, James Kirk."

"Like hell," Kirk gasped. Outside the door, the ship's alert siren set up a welcome howl. "Hear that? They're coming for you—the whole damn Security Section!"

McCoy mocked him with laughter. "Let the fools come. They'll find only a doctor treating his patient—the poor, crazed captain. It will seem that Spock fought you once again, only this time…unfortunately…he killed you."

Kirk reached behind him for McCoy's leg, twisting his body in an effort to free himself. But the thing held him easily in place.

"Can't you do any better?" jeered McCoy. In his preoccupation with Kirk, he failed to notice a patient quietly entering the room behind him. But Kirk observed every slow, painful step of her progress. Doctor Lauren Fielding was a pathetic sight in sickbay pajamas with her bruised, swollen face and limping gait. _If she could only reach_ _Spock! And if she did? After the beating he gave her, would she really be inclined to help him?_

Kirk could hear Spock struggling on the table. Now there were voices nearby, the sound of people searching the Medical Department. McCoy's boot left his back and rose over his head. Kirk rolled clear before it could stomp him.

The door burst open and Security Chief Lonce entered with an armed detail. The doctor abruptly abandoned Kirk and whirled to confront them. A long look passed between the Zaran and McCoy as Kirk climbed to his feet and the guards milled near the doorway, confused and hesitant.

Kirk knew he must assert his authority at once, before the lies began. "Phasers on Doctor McCoy," he said firmly. "At stun, I repeat, locked on stun."

The phasers found their target. With a dozen weapons leveled at the harmless-looking surgeon, Kirk permitted himself a quick glance at Spock. Doctor Fielding had administered an injection and was unlocking the Vulcan's restraints. Working to pull himself together, Spock rose on one elbow.

"Admiral," he gasped, " _don't touch him!_ We are dealing with a lone psycho-symbiotic entity. It creates a link…over which the being passes from body to body."

"You remember," Kirk said, relieved to at last be facing a definable enemy. He refused to consider that Spock might be manipulating him. _No—McCoy was clearly the enemy now._

And now that enemy lifted its hands in a pose of innocent bewilderment. "Say Jim, what's this all about?" it asked in a kindly doctor voice. "Spock did a damn fine job on your back before I got him with a hypo and locked him down on that table. You've lost a considerable amount of blood—it's plain to see you're not thinking very clearly, and neither is Doctor Fielding. Just take a good look at what Spock did to _her._ It makes no sense that she'd turn him loose, unless he's using some kind of mind control. _"_ His eyes returned to Nahfia Lonce. "You know the Vulcan is dangerous, you've seen him in action. Take him back to the brig so I can treat Admiral Kirk."

The strain of the past days showed clearly on her face as Lonce looked from McCoy, to Spock, to Kirk. "Admiral?" she said uncertainly.

"You have your orders," Kirk snapped.

"This is nonsense," asserted McCoy. "Spock is a _murderer_. He'll say anything to escape punishment." Turning to the admiral he said, "I'm sorry, Jim, but we have to face facts, although…" he shook his head in apparent sadness "…I have to admire your loyalty to the man."

"He's lying!" Lauren Fielding's voice boldly rang out. "I saw some of what happened here—enough to believe Kirk and Spock. The creature is in McCoy. _He_ attacked the admiral!"

Kirk felt like applauding. He willed Spock to meet his eyes. The Vulcan was sitting up now and looked like an escapee from hell. "We have to get this thing off the ship, now, while we have it cornered."

Spock nodded, and a silent acknowledgement passed between them. This _thing_ also happened to be their friend. But they would deal with that thought later…

The alert siren bleated on as Kirk tapped his com badge. "Kirk to Transporter Room."

"Admiral, wait!" The Security Chief stepped closer. "You can't strand him down there alone, unarmed, in an alien environment."

McCoy gave her a sorrowful smile. "My dear, the admiral will go to any lengths to protect Spock. It's the nature of love."

The creature must have known what affect the words would have. Whether through Zaran bonding or the intruder's seductive lure, Lonce rushed toward McCoy.

"Stand clear!" Kirk shouted, but McCoy was already reaching out to the Zaran. "Fire!"

Phasers discharged in a blast that enveloped both bodies. For a brief moment they touched before tumbling to the floor, mere inches apart.

Sweat stung the bloody slashes beneath Kirk's uniform as he stared at the bodies. The situation had just grown more complicated. "Cut that siren,' he ordered. Then he took a pair of phasers from the guards and handing one to Spock, cleared everyone else from the room.

Settling onto a chair, he considered an unhappy array of choices.

He could keep McCoy and Lonce aboard ship until the intruder betrayed itself, meanwhile endangering the crew.

He could beam them down together, exposing one of them to certain violence, perhaps even death, before the situation could be sorted out.

Or he could beam _one_ of them to the planet's surface and keep guard over the other until certain he or she was free of alien influence. But who should go? Kirk knew what McCoy would say. The doctor would gladly sacrifice himself to protect the Zaran. That _was_ the nature of love. But this was no time for personal feelings—McCoy's or anyone else's.

"Jim," Spock said. "If I may…"

Kirk signaled for silence and continued thinking. This would be his decision alone.

Nahfia Lonce was no ordinary woman, or even an ordinary Zaran. She was a Starfleet officer, capable in her field, as aware of the perils in Space as anyone aboard ship—and better equipped than most.

McCoy was not as young as Lonce, and he was merely human—though his strength had seemed _super_ human under the intruder's influence. As Chief Surgeon he was more valuable to Starfleet than any member of Security, and he was also Kirk's personal friend. Yet it was not favoritism that made their friendship an important factor in the admiral's decision. Recognizing an alien presence in a friend would be relatively easy, even if explaining the decision later to McCoy would not. It was precisely because he knew Leonard McCoy so well that Kirk ordered the Security Chief beamed into exile.

As her body shimmered from view, Spock said, "It was the choice I would have made."

"The _logical_ choice?" Once more, Kirk was becoming painfully aware of the glass buried in his flesh. Spock looked ramrod stiff and pale as he came over and sat beside him. Noting the Vulcan's shortness of breath and the arm pressed tightly to his side, he said, "You're injured, too."

Spock inhaled a bit too deeply, and winced. "These ribs are proving…somewhat inconvenient…but the pain is helping to steady me."

"McCoy did that?"

"No, it was Lonce," the Vulcan answered, "no doubt under the influence of the intruder. She used her boots on me, then her phaser. I should have deciphered what was happening long ago. The pattern of events followed a direct course, easily traceable…"

"About as easy as assembling a scattered jigsaw puzzle—with half the pieces missing. Spock, the presence doesn't register on sensors. Even the computer never identified our 'guest' as an entity. Sometimes that thing transferred so fast, it seemed to be coming from every direction."

Kirk's eyes drifted back to the still figure of McCoy. "You were out cold when I got here. I had trouble sleeping and went to find Bones. He wasn't in his cabin. I figured he was—well, visiting with Nahfia, but I tried sickbay anyway. And there you were, locked on that damn table. I couldn't believe that McCoy was going ahead without authorization."

"I heard you quarreling," Spock said.

Kirk glanced at him, surprised. "We argued alright…and I thought I could take him on. When I came to, I was on the deck."

"The being induces such bursts of speed and strength," Spock said quietly, "that there is probably nothing you could have done."

They were both gazing at McCoy now, phasers at ready. The doctor showed signs of reviving soon—almost too soon for a human—and Kirk realized that any knowledge gleaned from Spock's memory would be valuable in the moments to come. "Spock—anything you can remember…any useful bits of information…"

Spock's hand clenched over his phaser until his fingers ached in protest. "Anything," he repeated aloud. Kirk's words drove straight to the festering core of exhumed recollections. For a moment the ugliness threatened to overwhelm him and he looked aside, wrestling with his drug-charged thoughts. "Reesa Weller _pleaded_ with me…but we… _I…_ only laughed. _Laughed!"_ Fighting a sense of suffocation, he drew a careful breath. "I can't help wondering…was it the same for Doctor Fielding? Did I…mock _her?"_

"You said 'we'," Kirk gently reasoned. "So the presence was inside you, forcing the actions."

Spock slowly shook his head. What Kirk said seemed logical, but…"There is a symbiosis between the intruder and its host that is…not pleasant." The worst memories of assaulting Reesa Weller were those of bestial pleasure—of _enjoyment._ And neither the Vulcan nor the human in him could tell Jim that. "The entity travels from host to host through a process similar to the thought transference of telepathy. On its home world it had evolved an interdependent relationship with a native humanoid race. The symbiants functioned as sacred teachers while making use of the humanoids' bodies."

"Our intruder was anything but sacred," observed Kirk in an optimistic past tense. "What went wrong?"

Spock skimmed the troubling memories intertangled with his own. "Every society, however high-minded, will produce a number of corrupt individuals. Even on Vulcan there is a prison."

" _A_ prison," mused Kirk. "Have you any idea how many prisons serve Earth's population? But nevermind," he added before Spock could quote the exact number. "So our intruder was a Lucifer among angels?"

"An acceptable allegory. The ruins on Mega Morbidus are all that remain of an ancient penal outpost. Only one inmate survived, locked it its solitarium…" The bitter loneliness of millennia welled up in Spock's memory… _trapped in endless desolation…waiting…waiting for the telepathic touch it needed to escape..._ "And the wasteling came free…came to me when I touched the obelisk."

"Wasteling?"

Spock glanced at the admiral. So strongly was he identifying with the alien consciousness that it seemed Kirk had called _him_ the derogatory name. Shaking himself free, he explained, "Wasteling…is a term applied by their jailers, meaning…pariah, outcast. Most uncomplimentary."

"Spock. There's damn little in this thing's behavior to compliment."

McCoy stirred once again and opened his eyes. He attempted to rise on an elbow and crumpled. With a moan he lolled onto his back.

"An encouraging display of human weakness," Spock observed. He reached out tentatively with his mind, but could not detect any of the latent violence he had sensed in the intruder's hosts. Nevertheless, he cautioned Kirk as the admiral rose to his feet. "Jim. Be careful."

Kirk winced in pain as he straightened his body. He signaled Spock to stay put. "Cover me. If anything goes wrong, use that phaser."

McCoy squinted up at him, at the barrel of Kirk's weapon, looking confused. A second attempt to rise ended in dry heaves.

"You've been stunned," Kirk explained. "Better lie easy for a while."

"No kidding." McCoy clutched his head as if it might break apart. "Good a reason as any to hold a gun on me. Mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

Kirk found Spock at his side. Before Kirk could order him back, the Vulcan said, "He will not remember."

"Remember what?" McCoy levered himself into a sitting position. "There's nothing wrong with _my_ memory. I was working late when Nahfia brought Spock in on a grav stretcher. Said he'd collapsed…" He frowned, obviously grasping for the details that eluded him. "I…started to check Spock over. Then…I guess that's when someone blasted me…but…the only person carrying a phaser was…no, _that_ can't be…"

"Bones, I fired on you. Not then, but later."

McCoy was looking more lost than ever when Spock made a sudden move. Before Kirk could react, the Vulcan's hand grasped McCoy's shoulder. For a nightmarish interval Kirk held his breath, waiting, hoping, silently cursing Spock for an insubordinate snarth. He could have happily struck down the Vulcan, but even that brief contact would invite a diabolical transfer.

But nothing happened. McCoy accepted the touch in quiet wonder, never suspecting what Spock had risked through the simple act. Perhaps the doctor was reminded of another bad time or two when he had basked in Spock's wordless compassion, for he quietly asked, "Well, Spock. Am I dying then?"

Spock straightened with a less-than-fluid motion that alerted the doctor, and the imp, in McCoy. "Okay, what in blazes has happened to you now?"

Relief flooded Kirk and he tucked away his phaser. _That was Bones, alright._ And Spock was clearly _him_ self, though he made no attempt at a retort. _Now for the matter of Nahfia Lonce…_

ooooo

How very still the Enterprise seemed to Spock as it orbited Starbase 15. _Like a house with all the children gone,_ Kirk had said of the peculiar hush. Since Spock had no experience with large noisy households, he had offered only a polite nod. The near-empty ship reminded him of a mausoleum, though Weller and Lonce's bodies had been duly transferred to the starbase for shipment to their respective families.

Two dead, and he walked the corridors a free man.

With a quietly resolute step Spock entered sickbay and found the reception room as deserted as the rest of the ship. McCoy's medical department felt permeated with the doctor's recent loss. Steeling himself, he headed toward the lab where he hoped to find Doctor Fielding. It was better to confront the lieutenant here, by design, rather than meet her unexpectedly. If they were to share a ship, they must be able to face one another. _And if they could not…?_

His heart pounded hard as he approached her domain. He had paused outside the lab door when it opened suddenly and there she stood, wide-eyed with a shock that clearly equaled his own. He backed a step, but remained determined to carry out his mission, however personally humiliating.

"Captain…" she whispered.

Spock took in a breath and began. "They say I…made inappropriate advances." Thankfully, he had not regained those memories. The flood of mental images were only conjecture—sordid imaginings drawn from his encounter with Reesa Weller. But the scab on his lip was real enough— _from Fielding's teeth_ , by all reports. "And…it is also said…that I struck you."

Though her face had not fully healed, her eyes held no accusation. His gaze dropped to her slender fingers. "I don't know why you put yourself at risk in sickbay, to help me."

"I'm a doctor," she said thickly. "It wasn't you who did those things. It never was."

Spock found her eyes brimming. She blinked, sending tears down her face. She was not angry. She did not blame him. Spock's frustration roiled and came very near the surface. Everywhere he turned it was the same—unfailing kindness, absolution, and…silence. _No need to ever mention it again,_ they said, never realizing his need to purge himself of the atrocities and suffer the just penalty of their anger. If only they could speak out! For Weller, for themselves. Yes, the alien had manipulated him. Even under the influence of strardus he would never have committed such savagery. But under symbiosis he had shared an obscene pleasure in the deeds…and now he shared the guilt.

"I wanted to save Lieutenant Lonce," he found himself admitting. But there had been no chance to wrest McCoy's lover from the alien. Trapped within its host, the being had exhausted Nahfia's life energy long before the landing party found her dead in the maze of underground tunnels. Presumably the wasteling died with her.

"You tried," Lauren said.

"Spock?" He startled at the sound of McCoy's voice. "Were you looking for me?"

Smoothly Spock turned to the Chief Surgeon and said, "I thought we might eliminate the pressure bandage on my ribs."

McCoy's face clouded. No doubt he was remembering how the ribs were cracked, thinking of Nahfia. Then he eased into a sardonic smile. "Well, well, Doctor Spock, you seem to have reached your own medical conclusions. I don't see why you need me on the case."

Spock did not even attempt to raise an eyebrow. He was about to excuse himself when Lauren Fielding surreptitiously dried her eyes and said, "Doctor, I was telling the captain that he wasn't responsible for what happened to me…or to anyone."

Spock looked at her in dismay. "Was that not a private conversation?"

"Damn it," McCoy swore softly, "I've been so caught up in my own misery that I didn't see it. Spock, you really do feel responsible—not just for Laurie here, but for everything that happened."

"It was I who freed a ruthless criminal."

"How were you to know? You touched an obelisk that humans had been handling all day. You couldn't have known there was something inside, waiting for a telepath. Spock, accidents do happen now and then, even to the best of officers."

It was all Spock could do to hold back a sharp retort. _If your memory were as clear as mine, perhaps you would understand…_ He was acutely aware of the fact that Lauren Fielding was still present, observing all of this—observing _him._ He felt as if she could see past all his defenses, to the turmoil within…and the craving that made it so difficult to control himself.

Abruptly he left, brushing past Admiral Kirk as went out the door.

"Spock!" Kirk took a step after the Vulcan, then thought better of it.

"Let him go," McCoy said. "He needs to be alone."

Kirk flexed his shoulders impatiently, and winced. The lacerated areas on his back were still tender, though the skin had healed neatly, leaving only hairline scars. Rather like some of the people around here—looking better on the outside, still hurting on the inside.

He had come with the idea of taking McCoy out to dinner. The doctor had not been off the ship since delivering Weller and Nahfia's remains to the stasis unit at Starbase 15—a grim duty he'd insisted on fulfilling personally.

"Bones," he ventured, "how about joining me at one of those restaurants near the starbase? I feel like getting away."

McCoy frowned off the suggestion. "Thanks, Jim, but no. You go ahead. I'm dining at my desk today."

Kirk decided not to press him. When McCoy lapsed into one of his dark moods, he could be almost as remote as Spock. On impulse he turned to Doctor Fielding. Not even a few bruises could detract from her wholesome beauty. "How about it? Are you coming off duty? No use holing up aboard ship, at one of the finest shore facilities in the sector."

Lauren's fingers went to one of the discolorations. "Looking like this?"

"You look fine. I know a quiet little place. The lighting's so dim you can hardly read the menu. They serve a prime rib that melts in your mouth. Unless, of course, you're a vegetarian."

McCoy flashed him a _"what is it with you"_ look and shook his head.

Lauren turned those shy, incredibly blue eyes on Kirk, but she seemed preoccupied. Though disappointed, he was not surprised when she glanced at her wrist chrono and said, "Thank you, admiral, but I have other plans…"

Lauren grabbed her medical kit from the lab counter and went in search of the captain. At this hour he would not have gone far. He would be feeling a hunger unrelated to food, that only strardus could satisfy.

She came upon him in the sickbay waiting room, seated alone among the empty chairs. His glance found her and though he immediately averted his face, she settled right beside him with a physician's appraising look. He had gained twenty pounds and considerable strength since her histamine therapy cleared the deadly plakir-fee virus from his system. Perhaps in a month or so they could begin the detox procedure. She dreamed of the day when he would be free of drugs.

Gathering her courage she said, "Sir, I want you to know that I appreciate and accept your apology. I only mentioned our conversation to McCoy because I thought he should know about it—as your doctor, as your friend. Guilt can be a heavy burden—I understand that. Six times a day, I'm reminded of what I did to _you._ "

She watched his hands flex in his lap—the same hands that had left her bruised and bleeding. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering why the intruder had stopped at a kiss, a beating, when Weller had fared so much worse.

Aloud she said, "I don't suppose you'd consider talking to the chaplain. You don't have to believe in God to benefit from confession."

Beside her, Spock shifted uneasily. Was it the topic that he found disturbing or her physical presence? Only moments ago, _he_ had come to _her,_ but that did not give her the right to advise him—her superior officer, a man of remarkable intelligence. Yet on some matters her knowledge equaled or even exceeded his. Early on she had learned about atonement, a concept shared in one form or another by every planet in the Federation. Wasn't that what the captain sought? Why else would he be dissatisfied with a mere apology and the reassurance of his friends?

Acting on that idea, Lauren reached into her medkit and drew out a hypo. The instant Spock saw it, he sucked in his breath. Then noticing the empty ampule, he turned to her with the anger that came so swiftly these days. Remembering the deadly pressure of his arm on her throat, she swallowed hard and said, "Just a few more minutes. I'm here to ask something of you. A _favor._ "

"Of me?" An eyebrow climbed. He was clearly suspicious.

She nodded. "You may be aware that I'm researching a cure for Vulcan plakir-fee." Raising the hypo, she asked, "Will you permit me to draw some blood for the work?"

A question flared in his eyes: _Of what use would_ _my_ _blood be—the blood of an addict?_ But he knew enough of medicine and trust to unfasten his uniform jacket, draw out an arm, and push up the sleeve of his shirt.

Fresh tears threatened Lauren as she pressed the hypo to a vein in his wrist and watched green blood slowly fill the ampule. She dared not cry. She had to see clearly, she had to behave in a professional manner. When it was over she stood and said, "Thank you, Captain. I'll take it straight to the lab."

He made no comment and she expected none. But as she left the waiting room, she heard his voice behind her.

Had he really said, "If you need more…?"


End file.
